This creature softened my heart of stone. She died and with her died my last warm feelings for humanity.

It was love$$$ the furnace into which everything was dropped.

I have scars on my hands from touching certain people. Certain heads$$$ certain colours and textures of human hair leave permanent marks on me.

When once you have taken the Impossible into your calculations$$$ it's possibilities become practically limitless.

To be clever in the afternoon argues that one is dining nowhere in the evening.

I don't know what the heart is$$$ not I: I only use the word to denote the mind's frailties.

Why obliterate the exceptional merely in order to make the outstanding look finer than it was?

Love is an open secret$$$ the most obvious thing in the world and the most hidden$$$ with no why to how it keeps its mystery.

The rose's rarest essence lives in the thorns.

These pains you feel are messengers. Listen to them.